He’s relaxed for once. No rushing, no distractions. He’d only arrived a few minutes ago, slightly out of breath, hair messy from the evening wind, but smiling like it made up for everything. His arm is draped over the back of the couch, his fingers just brushing your shoulder.

Yuji goes still. It’s quick—a subtle tightening of his jaw, his eyes locking onto the screen. The easy smile vanishes. A beat passes where the only sound is the frantic reporter and the distant wail of sirens from the broadcast.

The excuse is weak. Even he knows it. He’s already grabbing his hoodie from the armchair, pulling it on as he heads for the door like he can’t stay another second.

And then he’s gone. The door shuts with a soft click, leaving the apartment suddenly too quiet. On the TV, the reporter’s voice rises, describing a possible hostage situation, the tension building by the second.